


Drabbles

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Scraps [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3289052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pieces that were fine as standalones, but too small/not serious enough for me to be happy with putting in Travels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Zevran sniffed irritably for perhaps the fifth time in ten minutes, and then gave in and dug round in his pack for a cloth to wipe his nose on. He drew out what seemed to be a clean square of fabric - there was no darkspawn blood staining it, or discoloured patches from most of his poisons. All the same, it never hurt to be careful, or paranoid.

Theron glanced over as Zevran sniffed carefully at the cloth, and glanced away back at the road ahead just as the Antivan let out an odd sound, and then spoke.

"... Ah. Oh dear."

“What?” He asked, looking back curiously.

“I think I just inhaled a knockout potion.” The former Crow admitted ruefully, coming to a halt. “It should wear off soon, no bother.”

Theron raised an eyebrow. A few seconds later, the blond collapsed, and the Dalish elf let out a deep sigh.

" _Again_ , Zevran? Fen’harel’s teeth..." He muttered as he stared down at the crumpled heap of leather armour and blond hair sprawled face down on the trail.

Someone behind them snickered, and Oghren started guffawing loudly.

“Alistair, help me drag him into Bohdan’s cart?” Theron asked wearily, already turning Zevran over and grabbing his limp arms.

"I had a proper handkerchief he could have borrowed, you know." The ex-Templar offered, suspiciously cheerful as he took the blond's legs.

"And I thought he would have cleaned those cloths like he said he'd done." Wynne shook her head.

"At least he's just unconscious this time, rather than paralysed." Leliana smirked, watching the two Wardens arrange Zevran as comfortably as they could in the back of the cart, Sandal digging around for a pillow.

"I'm seriously beginning to doubt his grand claims that he was one of the best assassins to come out of the Crows." Theron grumbled, hopping back down to the ground and shaking his head. "He already lied about the lock picking."

 ~

"Does it not bother you?"

They watched the blond elf standing across the marketplace. Judging from the way the female stallholder was smiling coyly at him as he spoke, he was using his charms to get a discount on something or other.

"What do you mean?" Theron asked.

"That he seems to flirt with almost anything that breathes."

"I'd be more upset if Zevran ever acted on those suggestions and spent the night at a tavern or in the Pearl rather than with me. I know he's not serious, anyway."

"But aren't you worried that one day he might be?"

"We've been together for how long now? Even he knows that cheating is a step too far - he said as much, once. He respects me enough to not go behind my back, and I him. Besides, he and Leliana are the best hagglers out of the group, I can tolerate him flirting his way to a bargain so long as we get cheap supplies and it stays at flirting or lurid staring. He knows it, too."

 ~

The Antivan found Theron standing with Dudain at the base of a tall tree, eyes narrowed in deep thought as his gaze flicked between the branches overhead. Zevran sighed, coming to recognise that scheming expression. The ranger looked over at him, before shrugging off his weapons.

"I want to see if this'll work. Here, hold my bow."

"If you think this is going to impress me..."

\- Ten minutes later -

Theron fell from the tree with a very unmanly yelp, narrowly missing the dog and elf that were standing looking up at him. He hit the ground face first with a heavy thump amidst some of the broken branch that had given under his weight, and let out a quiet groan into the grass as Dudain nudged at his cheek in worry. Zevran did his best not to laugh too loud as leaves fell like rain around them, settling on the ranger's prone form.

"You know, I'm not sure what you see in me." The ranger said, voice muffled against the ground. There were twigs caught in his braids.

"Hm. I don't think it's for this display of your tree-climbing abilities, even though you spoke so highly of them."

Theron lifted his head up from the grass to glare at the blond standing next to him.

"Lock. Picking."

"Ah. Touché. Er, have I ever told you how very sexy you make archery look?"

 ~

For once, Zevran was able to track down his wandering Grey Warden by following his ears. Usually Theron seemed to disappear as soon as everyone looked away from him, and came back under his own steam. Today, however, Zevran let the soft notes that were carried to him guide him to the ranger. He smiled when he caught sight of the other elf perched on a rock, his back to the Antivan as he played what seemed to be a flute carved from bone. It was a quick, lively melody, the sort Zevran could picture belonging to the Dalish. It wouldn’t sound too out of place in a tavern, or on the streets of Antiva, either.

Zevran smiled as he took in the sight of Theron playing a musical instrument. This was one talent that the ranger had kept to himself thus far, for some reason. The blond hadn’t even realised he was musically inclined.

The smile turned naturally to a smirk as the Antivan began to creep forwards, hoping that Theron was too absorbed in playing to be able to hear anything but the reedy, lilting flow of the melody. A beautiful melody that trailed off into a harsh squeal more befitting of a dying rabbit when Theron suddenly realised the former Crow was tapping his shoulder and managed to fall off the rock when he started.

“ _Fenedhis lasa_ , Zevran!” The ranger fumed as he sprang to his feet, whirling round in the same enviably fluid movement to glare at his lover over the rock Zevran had ensured remained between them. Zevran was too busy controlling his laughter to apologise, so Theron gave him an angry sigh as he tucked the flute away in the loop on his belt that was usually reserved for a dagger’s sheath.

“I wasn’t aware you were a musician. I am sure Leliana will want to arrange a duet as soon as possible.”

“Don’t you dare tell her, or I’ll never get a minute’s peace.” The black-haired elf answered darkly, glaring as Zevran continued to smirk at him knowingly. “Don’t you dare.”


	2. Chapter 2

When the nightmares call for him, choke him into muteness with thorns and the ghosts of events long past, it is all he can do to cling to what remains of his life. The one he watched end as his clan mourned the loss of two hunters to their ancestors and he stepped outside the shelter of the forest for the first time in his life. He clings to it, to become a ghost rather than a husk. He clings desperately to his bow because it is the one constant as he travels endlessly, and when it fails so will he.

~

In the forest, he is a spirit. The old trees do not betray his presence among their boughs. They are his allies, as are the creatures he shares the forest with. He respects them, and they him. They do his bidding not out of force or bribery, but out of indebtedness. The forest is his home, his life. It’s many secrets are his and his alone. He would have it no other way.   
A starving bear cub rescued from a bloodied den becomes the great bear that is whispered about by awed hunters who say they once saw the elf who is said to have reared it walking alongside it as a friend. Glimpses, but nothing more. The years pass. Sightings that are increasingly fleeting, until non-existent. He would have it no other way.   
The glimpses are spun like spider silk into rumours, growing larger and more extravagant in every retelling. The nondescript elf huddled in his regular corner of the tavern over an ale grins wolfishly to himself beneath his hood as he listens. He and his home are forever bound together in the minds of men. To them, he is the wild forest incarnate, elusive as the halla and the endlessly flowing rivers, inspiring awe and fear both to those who dare roam the old growth where he is said to patrol.   
And he would have it no other way.


	3. Nickname

“Hm, your name does not lend itself easily to a nickname.” Zevran mused.

“It doesn’t.” Theron agreed.

“Did you ever have one growing up?”

“Nothing personal to me -  _ da’len _ was used for all Dalish children.”

“A shame.” Zevran studied the Dalish elf. “What about… Hm… Ther?”

Theron grinned.

“The Hero of Ferelden,  _ Ther  _ Mahariel? No.”

“Ron, then?” Zevran’s eyes suddenly lit up, and he started to smile.

Theron glared at Zevran.

“No.” He repeated firmly.

“The great Hero of Ferelden and the saviour of Thedas…  _ Ron _ .” Zevran snorted his amusement, and then began to laugh.

“Zevran! If you call me Ron ever again, you’re sharing a bed with Dudain.”

“ _ Ron _ .” Zevran wheezed.


	4. Love

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair unbraided.”

Theron withdrew his face from the towel he was drying himself off with and looked up at Zevran sat crosslegged on the bed, cleaning his armour.

“I have to wash it sometimes, you know.”

“Of course I do.”

Theron smirked as Zevran returned swiftly to his armor and returned to drying himself, hair falling loosely around his shoulders and down his chest now it was out of the usual braided style.

It wasn’t until some time later when he was dressed and certain his hair was mostly dry that he began to rebraid it sitting on the stone floor in front of the hearth. His fingers worked methodically at such a familiar task, and his mind drifted aimlessly through the heat of the fire next to him and the settling tiredness.

The sound of Zevran clearing his throat made him look up to see the blond elf standing uncertainly next to the armchair behind him.

“May I, _amor_? You will be here half the night otherwise.”

Theron raised an eyebrow at the offer but nodded acceptance. Zevran sank into the armchair and Theron shifted back until he knelt between the blond’s parted legs, facing away to study the fire as he felt the gentle tugging of Zevran’s fingers take up the task of braiding his hair.

The room was quiet for a while save the crackling of the fire. Theron knelt calmly with his eyes closed and hands resting on his thighs as he breathed slowly and contemplated the day ahead of them tomorrow. 

Zevran was making his way slowly through the braids, and he’d started to hum something under his breath as he worked. His fingers were surprisingly nimble, judging from the rhythmic tugging Theron could feel on his scalp, but it wasn’t harsh enough to cause pain. Theron opened his eyes.

“Zevran?”

The word hung in the heat-thick air for a lazy moment.

“Yes?”

“I love you too.”

Zevran’s fingers stilled for the briefest moment, and the pause would have been imperceptible if they were touching anywhere else but Theron’s scalp. Then they continued braiding, the silence settling over them again.  Theron closed his eyes, a smile creeping onto his face.


	5. Kindness

Zevran lay with his head buried in Theron’s chest, exhausted after another late night crying spell and taking comfort in the sure arms keeping him close. One hand callused by the wood of a bow stroking up and down his shoulderblades and back in a soothingly repetitive motion, the other protectively tight around his midsection as if that would keep the gnawing misery and guilt from returning.

“Zevran?” Theron’s voice was gentle in the quiet.

Zevran blinked and his eyes hurt at the motion.

“Mm?” His throat hurt too.

“You need to be kinder to yourself.”

Zevran gripped harder at the front of Theron’s shirt, a bitterly harsh gesture that turned his hand into a fist. A weapon, though a blunt one with no direction. So like himself. What he needed and what he _deserved_ for his past cruelties were two different beasts.

“Easier said than done, _amor_.”

“In that case, I’ll be here for you.”


End file.
